In towns where whispers weave through air,

And cobblestones tell tales of yore,

There roams a man with silvered hair,

With potions, herbs, and folklore galore.

His wagon creaks through dawn's soft glow,

And down the cobblestones of the lands,

Each vial and jar, a world to know,

Behold the traveling medicine man.

He speaks in tongues of ancient roots,

Of healing leaves and honeyed balm,

His hands, they hold the magic touch,

No need for a magic wand.

His eyes, a mirror of the skies,

Reflect the hertz of every man.

With every remedy he applies,

Life's ailments flee on his command.

Yet, when the stars claim the night's embrace,

And silence falls upon the land,

He faces the mirror, a solemn face,

The healer's heart he cannot mend.

For every laugh and grateful tear,

He's traded pieces of his heart,

A lonely path he treads in fear,

That from himself, he drifts apart.

His hands that soothe the deepest ache,

Are powerless to heal his own,

In twilight's hush, he lies awake,

The medicine man, forever alone.

So, spare a thought for this gentle soul,

Whose life to others he did hand,

For in the art of making whole,

He lost himself, the medicine man.